


Only five yen

by ko_drabbles



Category: Ouran High School Host Club - All Media Types, ノラガミ | Noragami
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Noragami Fusion, Bullying, Death, F/M, Gods, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Spirits, Weapons
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-19
Updated: 2018-10-22
Packaged: 2019-07-14 12:15:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16040288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ko_drabbles/pseuds/ko_drabbles
Summary: An hourTamaki might not have a shrine like his father and grandmother, he might not get that much money from his jobs, he might be what one would call a "bum", he might not be able to provide everything for his regalias... Yep, that was the size of it.Noragami AU. No knowledge of Noragami needed.





	1. He's crazy!

Shiro hated this. Just because the people in his class were jerks, just because they wrote mean shit on his text book, didn't give him an excuse to be this... weak.

His sobs echoed around the deserted bathroom, all the other, more motivated students were listening to their teachers and preparing for exams. He was safe. He was... pathetic. His teeth dug into his lip with a blunt sting as he let his notebook sit on his lap, looking over the scrawled kanji on the cover.

**_Crazy._ **

**_Freak._ **

**_Kill yourself._ **

And what if he did? He'd bet they'd all be so fucking sorry when they found out they were responsible. That they were murderers. Or they'd laugh and say about how he was always messed in the head. Probably the last one, thinking about it; he wasn't likeable or sweet enough for a martyr's death, nowhere near. It almost made him jealous of the bullying victims who were picked off for being “weak”, for showing kindness and never hurting a fly.

He screamed and kicked, not that it did him any good. It didn't matter if they'd told him to jump off the roof, if he yelled, it was his own damn fault, apparently. Fuck. Middle school was just so depressing. He remembered when kids only ran from him while playing those silly games, and they were laughing because they were all having fun. Now, they laughed as they ran away, yelling “psycho!” as he screamed at their backs.

He wanted to be a kid again. He was always so impatient to grow up, wishing away days, hours, years... He'd taken it for granted, and now all he wanted was to sit at the piano with his little childhood sweetheart, who he couldn't even remember the name of now.

The guy's bathroom was always kind of gross; toilet roll on the floor (wet), dingy tile, and graffiti on the stall walls. Witty remarks such as “ _Shoto's gay_ ” and other scrawling. However, amongst the other obscenities and insults, something caught his eye.

In handwriting that was actually somewhat neat, someone had written something very odd for a middle school bathroom, and his brow furrowed, the last few tears falling from his lashes.

_Delivery God Tamaki, open 24/7! Any problems, solved!_

The mysterious Tamaki's number was there below, and Shiro felt the odd want to... actually call it. Any problem solved, huh? He really was grasping at straws - no, less than that. The number could be for anyone, any kind of person, and he was really going to do it?

The phone intermittently let out it's small _beep!_ as he dialled the number. He was hesitant, and it was all tortuously slow. He really was being a dumbass. He was just... tired. Tired of school, tired of those jerks, tired of dragging himself through life; it wasn't going to change unless he tried. If you could call this trying. It was action though, despite it being questionable.

He held the phone to his ear, and it took less than two rings for the call to be picked up. Eager, then. Or useless and just as desperate as he was. They were kind of a match then, at least.

“Hello, delivery God Tamaki, at your service!” An overly cheery, male voice greeted. Ugh, this was so suspect; like he'd be hauled into a windowless van as soon as he stepped foot outside, “Hello? Are you still there?”

Despite it all, the man sounded... kind, and really, that was all he was asking for at this point. “Y-yeah,” He stammered, swallowing hard, “I just... I...”

“You need help, right?” The voice said, and it sounded so soft, almost like he was smiling encouragingly. If he thought about it, he'd probably find it plain depressing that he was getting warm fuzzies over something so painfully benign, “I can tell. No one sees my number otherwise.”

Shiro was about to hang up, or throw his phone at the cubicle door, when the man said something so genuine, it stopped him.

“I want to help you, don't worry. Asking is the most difficult step to take, but it really is brave.”

Brave. No one ever called him that. He went from a brat to a psycho, no one turning to look at him, to see the damage. It wasn't like he was bleeding or bruised, after all. Still, they still told stories of that one student who used to cut his wrists - laughing like it was funny. Worked himself to death, they said, followed by good riddance.

How could they be so heartless, anyway? He might not have been a nice person, but he'd never do that; he'd rather be dead than that twisted.

Before he knew it, he was sniffling once more, tears dropping onto his lap and darkening little spots on his trousers. “Please...” He began, voice quiet and weak, “Please help me, Tamaki-san...”

The phone hung up, and there was the awful drop of disappointment in Shiro's gut, before a knock at the stall door caught his attention. “I'll happily help, not to worry!” A cheery voice announced, the same as the one that had been on the other end of his call. What the hell?!

He bolted forward, unlocking the door and slamming open, teeth bared. “How the fuck are you here, already?!” He demanded, “I just called!”

“It's called good customer service,” The man muttered, and Shiro was surprised to see someone so... young. The guy looked like he could be some kind of model; his blonde hair that was in perfect place, not a flyaway or split end to be seen, and those eyes seemed almost violet in the clinical lighting of the school bathroom.

“You put your number here? Of all places?”

Shiro jumped and whipped his head around to the side, gaze landing on some other pretty-boy teenager with red hair. The other guy pulled a face as he surveyed the mystery stains on the wall, obviously disgusted with the state of the bathroom; Shiro didn't blame him.

“It's called advertisement, Hikaru,” Tamaki huffed, cheeks flushed and a little flustered, “If you're going to be this negative, then you can stick to the other jobs. Why'd I even bring you?”

“Because everyone else was busy,” Hikaru scoffed, shoving his hands in the pockets of his jeans. They were just going to keep bickering by the looks of things, if Shiro didn't get their attention. How professional.

He cleared his throat, the other two in the room actually shutting up and turning to him. Shiro fiddled with the tattered cuff of his school jumper, suddenly feeling rather awkward. “Actually, I don't know why I called your number,” He lied, not interested in having the two morons help with a problem that even the teachers couldn't solve, “I'm fine, so you can just go.”

“Yeah, because people who are _fine_ cry alone in the bathroom,” Hikaru snorted, and Shiro felt his face heat up in embarrassment. He scrubbed his sleeves over his face, drying the tear tracks but still leaving that red puffiness around his eyes, lips pulled back in a snarl.

“Be nice to the customers!” Tamaki scolded, succinct and authoritative, surprisingly, and placed a comforting hand on Shiro's shoulder, “It's alright. Like I said, you're brave for seeking help, no matter where it comes from. It's a bullying problem, right?”

Shiro lifted his head, staring into those purple tinted eyes for a moment. He didn't answer. “Who even are you?” He asked instead, “How did you know?”

“Isn't it obvious?” Tamaki grinned, seeming to be genuinely happy at the question. It wasn’t cruel, or obnoxious; it was that same softness the man had in his tone. Shiro almost felt… at ease. So, of course, the universe had to bite him in the ass once more, “I’m a God.”

Scratch kind and gentle, this guy was crazy.


	2. Slit Your Wrists

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It never changes. They whisper about him, constantly, like there's nothing else to do. Well, fuck them. They can all just go to hell...
> 
> If he doesn't get there first.

Shiro let out a frustrated sigh as his hand rested on the door to his classroom, willing himself to just push it open already. He'd managed to get away from the crazy person proclaiming that he was a God, when the guy and his red-headed friend were both distracted by ramblings of him becoming someone worthy of the worship of thousands. God, why did he just attract weirdos? Despite what everyone seemed to think, he wasn't one; he just got angry sometimes.

He finally made himself enter the classroom, fighting the urge to cover his ears against the whispers of his classmates. It wasn't a big deal. It wasn't, they were all just stressed, and he'd always made himself an easy target when it came to this stuff. If they tried to fight him, that'd be different; after all, he was all mouth when it came to violence, and it would put him in actual danger. Words hurt, but it wasn't like they mattered...

_"The psycho's back."_

It wasn't like a punch to the gut.

_"Why did he have to come back? Should've just stayed away so we can all focus."_

He just had to keep his head down, like always, and then it wouldn't get worse. Words were fine, they weren't important.

_"All he has to do is skip classes for a while, and the teachers'll let him get away with anything. They're just glad he actually showed up."_

He just needed to get away sometimes, clear his head. He couldn't deal with it constantly, even if that just spoke to his own weakness. He didn't really do anything anymore, there was nothing to get away with, but an image can be hard to scrub away...

_"All he has to do is slit his wrists, then he'll never have to come to class again."_

It’s not like he ever thought about actually doing it when they said that. Not at all. His wrists weren’t scarred, he just got scratched by the cat. It was just the cat.

He took a seat, the lump in his throat cutting off his air, trying to ignore them. Trying to pretend that no one wanted him dead, so there was no point running off, no point crying. He was fine. He was fine, and he didn’t need any of those fuckers anyway, because he liked being alone. He wasn’t lonely, wasn’t daydreaming of a girl who his memory of slipped away more and more each day. Some faceless girl with pretty hair and fingers that turned notes on a page into beautiful music that drifted through his whole body and wrapped around his heart.

_Cheep! Cheep!_

Shiro peered down, the sound so odd that it caught his attention, and yelped as he fell off his chair. There was something on his finger, perched on the thin silver band that _she_ had pressed into his hand before she left, whispering about luck and happiness and other lies.

“Get off!” He panicked, shaking his hand in hopes of dislodging the creature, only to realise that it had vanished into thin air. He paused, looking at his hand for a moment, before wondering aloud, “There was something… Where did it…?”

_“There it is. He’s officially crazy now.”_

Shut up! There was something there, he wasn’t crazy! He was never crazy, he just saw red sometimes and acted without thinking, that was all!

_“So that’s his new gimmick.”_

What fucking “gimmick”?! He’d never had a damn gimmick in his life! There was something there, on his finger, and no one was taking him seriously, like usual!

_“What’s his game? Does he think that’s going to make him scarier, or something? That’s so stupid…”_

Why would he want that? Why would _anyone_ want that?!

_“I hope I don’t end up at his high school.”_

Well he didn’t want to go to high school with any of these assholes, anyway! He didn’t care! He didn’t need anyone from this shitty school!

_“It’s almost time for entrance exams. I don’t have time to worry about a freak like that…”_

And that was status quo, wasn’t it? No one had ever given a shit about him, except for her, but she was gone and now he was all alone. Maybe he should just slit his wrists, get it over with…

The thought knocked all the air from his lungs, startling him with how easily it had come to mind, as if it was just a benign thing to think; as if he just thought about making a sandwich. It wasn't like he wanted to die, he didn't. He really didn't, those assholes just told him that he should because people always kick down. They were the psychos, not him. He never did anything like that. When he threw stuff, it was always at the wall.

His shoulders shook, and he could feel that hot sting in his eyes that meant he's start blubbering like a baby any minute. God fucking damn it. Not here, not now. Imagine what they'd say if he cried in front of them...

He couldn't take it. He stumbled to his feet, almost falling flat on his face but managing to stay upright, running out of the classroom and slamming the door behind him. His shoes were all too loud against the linoleum flooring of the hallways, and he felt the too much, too strong paranoia that a teacher would poke their head around one of the doors any moment, and he'd get in trouble. Again. As if that hadn't happened enough as it was.

He just needed to get the hell out of this situation, out of that fucking room, away from those shitty people he shared a class with. He had a test next period, but fuck it. He was failing anyway, so who even cared? He didn't.

He knew that their shitty attitude towards him should be some sort of motivator to pull his grades out of the sink hole - he'd been a smart kid, after all - but no. In real life, that didn't work. He wanted to get a cool, well-paid, successful career, but he didn't have the energy to work on his grades, so that wasn't an option.

He didn't want to try. He wanted to stay at home, in his room, for as long as possible. Why go outside when he was only ever happy there? He sure as hell didn’t want to prove the bastards right, but why inconvenience himself in the process?

He didn’t have to do anything. He _wouldn’t_ do anything.


End file.
